


we call a man cold when he is only sad

by surexit



Category: Bletchley Circle
Genre: F/M, In Vino Veritas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/pseuds/surexit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the series, Susan finally talks to Timothy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we call a man cold when he is only sad

Susan doesn’t normally drink more than a little, just enough to make things warm and make her smile, but only a week ago she thought she was going to die, and things have been off-balance since then. Odd things have made her flinch, moments when Timothy is behind her unexpectedly and one horrible moment when she thought she smelled a familiar perfume and could feel her eyes prickling with tears. She hasn’t contacted Millie or Lucy or Jean.

The dinner party was a trial, honestly. Too many loud voices, too much bright laughter, and nothing really seemed to break through to Susan, sitting at the end of the table and mechanically eating. She could feel Timothy watching her, occasionally, with an anxiously bright look in his eyes, and so she reached for wine, hoping that it would perk her up.

Too much wine, she thinks now, with careful clarity, as she stumbles a little against Timothy on the way in through the front door. He moves away from her to hang up his hat and coat, and comes back to help her out of hers, something carefully restrained in his hands as they brush over her shoulders.

“You should drink some water,” he says, the first thing he’s said since they left the Andersons’ house.

“Mmm,” Susan says, agreeing, and she heads to the kitchen, refusing to feel alarm about putting her back to Timothy and hoping that he’ll go to bed. Her head is starting to hurt, and she feels foolish.

Timothy follows after a moment or two, leans against the counter top and watches her drink a glass of water in silence, eyes resting with inquiry on her face. Susan pretends not to see it, turns to the sink to fill the glass again. The water hitting the bottom of the glass is too loud.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Timothy says, and it’s not a surprise. 

“Tell you what?” Susan asks. She knows her voice is tired. The thought of denying everything yet again makes her feel old, too old for any of this.

“I thought so,” Timothy says, softly.

Susan stares at the water as it runs from the tap, until she feels wetness on her hand and realises that she’s let the glass overflow. “I was at Bletchley Park,” she says, suddenly, roughly, as she reaches to switch off the tap. She sets the glass down and turns around, gripping the countertop behind her too tightly.

Timothy’s eyebrows have risen. 

“In the war,” Susan clarifies. She can’t say anything else, shouldn’t, won’t. Her heart is beating too fast.

“Yes,” Timothy says after a second, brows lowering. “I suppose you were. Puzzles, eh?” It’s not really a question.

“Yes,” Susan says. She reaches behind her for the overfull water glass, sips some and tries to make a careless face when she spills a few drops down her blouse, but her mouth stays pinched, anxious. “And we - I caught a murderer last week.” She hears herself laugh a little, off-key and mirthless. “Well, I suppose you might say he caught me, but it all came out alright in the end.”

“ _Susan_ ,” Timothy says, a little strangled. That’s pulled shock out of him where the Bletchley Park revelation hadn’t. Susan looks at the floor.

“My head hurts,” she says softly.

Timothy takes a step, and then another, and then rests a hand gently, tentatively on her shoulder. “I-” he begins, and then appears to think better of it. “Shall we go to bed?” he says instead, warmth in his tone.

Susan nods, and follows the gentle pull of his hand, away from the counter. She leaves the water on the side behind her. At the foot of the stairs Timothy stops, hesitating. He clears his throat. “I- I won’t ask any more. Tomorrow.” Susan watches his face as he talks, the dear lines of it. “But I’d like to hear anything you want to tell.”

Susan reaches out, touches his hand where it grips the bannister. She has nothing to say, doesn’t know if she’ll find any more words tomorrow, sober and in the clean daylight. “Thank you,” she says instead of any assurances. “I know.”


End file.
